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  • maleficent_ 33w

    Crinkles of your eyes , warm winter sun ;
    filter through my windows , on mornings
    when my shell is not ready to drag itself upright .
    I drop pieces of me ,
    all over my apartment , leaving
    proofs of my disintegration .
    You pick them up and make
    bracelets out of the chunks of my medulla ,
    i wear it in
    hopes of injecting a few drops of life into me .
    Cotton candy contours ,
    orange tint of your embrace ,
    everything you touch ,
    drips with honey and a whole lot of moonlight .
    I don't know how to
    touch the delicate crystal of
    your skies and not break it ,
    so i gaze at it and fill myself
    up with hopes of something , anything , good .
    My teeth know the stains of blood , I have not tasted anything except death ever in my mouth ,
    and you feed me spoonfuls of
    affection and patience ,
    i gulp it down and try to remember the taste .
    How am I supposed to breathe the twelve kinds of love you drop in my hands passing by , i have only ever inhaled a dying smoker's exhale ?
    So i put chunks of it in mason jars and stack them on my kitchen rack , one after another
    for when i again break in splinters , I could use them
    to glue myself back together and wait for you .

    - R .



    Hi , I'm still alive , unfortunately .

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    Mason jars and spoonfuls of love .

  • maleficent_ 36w

    after all the church bells have faded ,
    every sense of time lost .
    Stacks of broken promises stuffed in old
    bookshelves and bruises
    the colour of ink stains have
    made home in the expanse of my skin ,
    the snow globe
    of existence juggled with and shaken so hard it refuses to settle .

    After clouds of insanity finally
    mixed with Cigarette smoke
    and got inhaled ,
    heavy thuds of heart clutched in sharp claws
    receded to faint whispers ,
    slow curves of body turned into
    hard ice cold rocks and stale
    wine seeped through doorjambs ,
    after explosions have ended ,
    fragile limbs rot knee deep in debris

    after autumn left everything dry and
    demons inside the bed
    crawled up and on my neck ,
    after the ivy leaves slytherd through
    my pores and filled my veins with saturated cynicism ,
    after all the chants succumbed to silence and voices rose to scream
    the unspeakable , after the last thread of sanity snapped and
    the apocalypse took it's roots ,

    Apparuit iam beatitudo vestra ?
    Now your blessedness appears ?

    - Ruhii




    The last line was written by Dante Alighieri in " The Divine Comedy " for his beloved Beatrice .

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    Apparuit iam beatitudo vestra ?

  • maleficent_ 36w

    You look at me with hazy eyes
    cramming a whole lot of moonlight in them .
    And I drink it all in hopes of having a little
    more of you inside me ;
    You corrupt me but I cling to you
    like a twichy addict needing her fix .

    Those icy blue drapes over the windows
    have seen more damage than old
    withered eyes , skin melting off bones
    and strangulated cries of the birds outside .
    None of this compares to when you exhale
    smoke from your bruised lips and I
    suck it right in me as a life source
    transferring between two people who smell
    of death .

    There are no more poems left in me , so
    instead I dedicate eulogies to you ,
    heavy handshakes are exchanged between
    our drooling demons .
    You kiss the inside of my palm and
    your lips scorch me , you trail your
    fingers along my neck and my jugular
    cries in agony .
    I crush you harder , to the point where
    none of us can breathe .
    Love , with you is a double bladed knife
    and I know you need the stinging burn as
    much as I do , so I cling to you like a twichy
    addict
    needing
    her
    fix .


    - Ruhii




    ?

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  • maleficent_ 37w

    Click Clack of your stilettos is all I get
    in the name of a warning bell
    before my bones crumble
    against each other and
    I form a pool of regret and mistakes
    near you feet , flowing under the doorjambs and forming
    a straight rail of guilt identical to yours ,
    just white .
    You lurk in the shadows
    and whisper my name like
    a sinful chant used to
    summon the devil , and I come ,
    offer myself right at your feet
    like the sacrificial lamb I am
    and you wear the crimson trail
    left by my wrists on your lips and form a smile
    so identical to mine ,
    for a moment I look for myself
    in your Auburn eyes , but look back at my feet after finding nothing except a void so huge it
    can swallow me and spit nothing out .
    I lick my wounds and you
    sit over me pouring brine on every cut ,
    every slash .
    Scars are permanent , Dermis jagged ,
    Would I find anything to camouflage the evidence of a massacre ?
    You walk over my burning corpse
    and sing songs about murders and
    Virgin girls while the hiss of fire
    accompanies your melody and
    I lick the remnants of my own limbs off the floor .
    They call the hollow mould your skin is ,
    the root of my existence ,
    and I lick a knife in hopes of
    not being able to utter a word ,
    but I scream , I still scream because
    I am not an individual , I am a mass of
    your regrets tied together in a
    skeleton and my hands are sweaty , slippery ,
    too weak to hold on the thread of sanity left .
    I can't kill you , but I have tasted copper at the back of my
    throat everytime I uttered your name
    I'd wish you the day but you sliced off my tongue
    and stepped on my throat .
    Mommy , Mommy you bitch , Happy Mother's Day .

    - Ruhii .





    I was trying not to make mother's day sour so i posted it today .

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  • maleficent_ 37w

    I don't write cynical poems when I'm infatuated with someone .
    I write tender , soft , caressing , almost-love poems .
    The habit of pouring myself completely
    in the vessel of another
    has a choking hold on me ,
    and in those moments , I don't complain .
    I write ;
    because that's all I know how to do .
    To liquify myself and
    flow inside a man's habitat , and make a
    puddle near his feet ,
    and look at him like my eyes are deprived of
    beauty ,
    beauty that only drips from his pores .
    I drink it all
    in and pat myself on the back for not
    writing another pessimistic poem when I could've .
    A touch , A blink ,
    a caress and I'm a goner
    worshipping my muse .
    And then ,
    just like a lie swirling around me ,
    it fades . The almost-lover leaves like
    he was never there and
    the aftertaste stays with me like ink stain .
    I've collected ink stains all over my heart .
    So much ,it now looks like
    midnight sky without the stars ,
    but I still have places to
    write poems upon ,
    poems dripping with fear and nightmares ,
    anxiety and murders ;
    and I'll go back to not writing them when
    I find another vessel to pour myself into .

    Meet me somewhere forbidden again , maybe I'll omit the almost from all of my love poems . Meet me again .
    I might be a cynical poet but I don't mind writing love for now .


    - Ruhii .




    What do you call a person who is in a huge bubble of misconception , thinking she's a poet ?
    Nothing . You call her nothing , You skip her poem and keep scrolling .

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  • maleficent_ 37w

    Your bare skin brushes mine
    and a trail of blazing fire ,
    races down my spine .
    We look at each other and the edges
    of the world turn soft , shadows blurring
    in grey patches .
    A song ends and you shove your hands
    in my hair , and bring me to you like
    you need it for survival .
    We devour each other , trying to
    blend in together , sucking the life source
    right out until I can't decide where
    you end and I start , our existences
    merge together like two starkly
    different colours on a pallet .

    I am a mixture of all the people
    who left me , I'm a product of insecurities .
    I've yet to learn how not to paint
    myself in the colours of every person
    I've ever loved . My apartment
    smells of coffee and books , and I am just
    another inanimate object waiting for the
    life to drip out of me through rough poetries .
    Rain thunders on my window and I
    pick up pieces of my scorched love
    and make bracelets out of them , in hopes
    to pull out a whole string from the tangles
    on my wrists .

    Lately I've been reading the gloomy tales
    of poets who held tragedies in their lives
    and had the privilege to end it themselves .
    Would I ever be one of them ?
    Maybe I am not a poet , maybe I'm a torn , stepped upon
    squeezed heart , pulled out of a still warm body
    trying to put into letters and words and phrases
    what it was like to be surrounded with your
    smell , what it was like to slip out of your knuckles
    when you held too tight , what it was like to paint
    stars on your back ?

    Someday , I'll learn how to keep myself tinged
    with a single shade . Someday .

    - Ruhii


    What is this ?

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    I'm a product of insecurities .

  • maleficent_ 38w

    I feed on cynicism
    and you're a vile of powdered melancholy .

    I keep a handful of grief
    in my breast pocket to
    feed my demons
    evey time i encounter you
    because you , my friend , are a product of reality
    and reality , burns me .
    We look across the table at
    each other amidst the chaos ,
    our coffee slowly turning into tar
    and i see before my eyes as
    you fight and lose a battle in your head .

    I am no Dante
    but I've had a taste of Inferno on my tongue
    and you smell exactly like the aftertaste it left .
    Tell me friend
    do you ever think Juliet was a cruel lover
    or you just pity her ,
    because I find myself on the center stage
    waiting for the death to swallow me .
    We have turned into
    different phantoms ,
    but i witness life
    trickling out of me
    in your presence ,
    you look like you just got promised a massacre .

    Have coffee with me friend , would you ?

    - Ruhii


    ?

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    I am no Dante
    but I've had a taste of inferno
    on my tongue and you smell exactly like
    the aftertaste it left .

  • maleficent_ 40w

    Plath never realised
    she had no choice but to die .
    So when she finally died ,
    People called her a maniac depressive
    someone who was too wrung out
    to care that she was leaving
    two children behind !

    They called her sick , because
    she chose an abnormal way to kill herself .
    What do you think of when I say suicide ?
    Tight ropes ? Dirty Ceiling fans ?
    Railway tracks ? Uncontrolled cars ?
    Rusting blades ? Hard pillows ?
    But she ,
    Put her thoughthouse in the same
    microwave , she probably used
    to feed her children
    just eight hours ago !

    Nobody dares to choke over her
    husband's name who dedicated love
    poems to her , and proceeded to
    carve syllables with his tongue
    on another bare stomach , the next night
    Nobody .

    But what they don't realise is
    she stuffed towels in the doorjambs
    of her children's room .
    To keep them alive .

    - Ruhi



    ?

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    Plath died .

  • maleficent_ 40w

    Painting promises , with a loose strand
    of raven black hair , dripping with
    colours of insomnia and addictions.
    Licking the blood off teeth , and flaunting
    the crooked smile for all that's worth .

    Shredding bones in hopes to make a fine
    powder , to fill up all the cracks , holes
    in medulla . Broken mirrors reflecting all
    the flaws and chipped skin , vast nakedness .

    For once , when you try to find a way out ,
    the chains just tighten around your throat .
    There's no way in sight , just the hollow
    darkness and all consuming suction . A
    claustrophobic concentration of nerves and
    electricity , sucking all the life right out
    like a parasite .

    Flowers wither in a room of black walls
    built over graveyards of all the people my
    conscience murders on a daily basis .
    You will keep feeling the crawling spiders
    on your limbs till you dissolve in the poison .

    - Ruhii .



    Kids , this is what writing furiously when you obviously can't results in . Also , Happy Birthday to
    Mom 2.0 @rani_shri , I love you ❤️

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  • maleficent_ 40w

    We stumble inside the library , to find
    new chunks of fiction
    because reality,
    my friend , isn't something people
    willingly choose .
    You kiss me furiously and the hardbound
    Crime and Punishment , rattles on the
    shelf above .
    Dostoevsky is watching the lust fueled ,
    mad passionate , love .
    Love that burns so hard one moment
    it sears your palm , and fades in shadowy
    smoke the next .
    The edges of world are grey and blurry ,
    windows don't do justice to the
    intensity of rain .
    You look at me and sketch a galaxy
    on my throat with your eyes . Brownstone eyes .
    What do you want to read , lover ?
    Something grave and dry and horrifying you say .
    How about past ?
    But you can't read that , because poets like you and
    me , we don't read what we made ourselves ,
    it feels like pressing a tender bruise again
    just to feel the lick of pain .
    So for now , settle on Hemingway , why don't you .
    And when the rain ends , kiss me again
    under Pride and Prejudice this time ,
    and feed me lies , delicious lies ,
    about how love is eternal .
    Would you ?

    - Ruhii


    Where is the motivation for writing coming from ?

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    Hemingway and Austen
    or maybe ,
    Dostoevsky and Sexton .